Bexilarius's page

Bexilarius lives by his own personal code. Deeply disciplined, he cares little for good or evil, or the welfare or well-being of others, striving only for his own personal perfection. He won’t go out of his way to hurt someone, but he won’t go out of his way to avoid it, either. Order and loyalty are important, and if he agrees to something, he carries it out to the end, expecting the same from those around him. He realizes, however, that most people do not follow this same code, and so gives his word or makes promises rarely and warily. He believes his infernal heritage makes him superior to others, and looks down on those more “inferior” than he (reserving a decidedly Chelaxian contempt for halflings or “slips”), though skill and prowess can overcome these prejudices.

But Bexilarius is a conflicted individual. On the one hand, he was raised and trained from a young age in an Asmodean monastery and seeks physical and mental perfection as a reflection of the pure infernal order of Hell, a path his own infernal nature willingly embraces. On the other hand, his human side constantly whispers that he will never reach the perfection of his infernal forebears, and the fact that he was abandoned at birth is the truest mark of his inferiority, and secretly his greatest shame. This hidden inferiority complex forces him to rebel against the discipline of his diabolic upbringing, and he actively seeks out pleasures of the flesh and the senses, and his compulsive gambling habit is just one of his many vices. Yet Bexilarius doesn’t gamble for wealth – he gambles to win. It’s not the money that’s important, it’s beating the odds. He cares little for the accumulation of material possessions, though he does indulge in expensive clothes, fine foods and wines, and high-class courtesans. But to stay disciplined, he enforces other rigid rules upon himself: he enjoys none of the comforts of a home, choosing always to sleep on a plain board or the floor, willingly denies himself sleep and food for short periods, and engages in daily meditation and vigorous exercise. Perhaps hearkening back to his childhood treatment by the Devil Nuns, he has also taken to suffering pain as repentance for his more excessive indulgences. Bexilarius engages in regular self-flagellation with a scourge, which has left his back scarred and bloody. But he believes the pain focuses his mind, hardens his body, and purges his soul, and more and more of his daily meditations include this bloody ritual.

Though a confirmed diabolist, Bexilarius is not really devout. He pays only lip service to the Archdevils of Hell, and willingly prays to other gods when a situation warrants it (Desna, Calistria, and Norgorber are frequent recipients of his prayers of expedience, and recently he’s become more intrigued with the faith of Zon-Kuthon). Nevertheless, his own infernal heritage ties him closely to his faith, and he is a firm believer that without pain there would be no pleasure, without cruelty there would be no kindness, and without the evils of hell (and men like him) there would be no good.

Born in the Chelaxian town of Senara (a place known for its tiefling population), Bexilarius was abandoned at birth on the doorstep of the Monastery of Fiery Virtue, with only a mysterious signet ring clutched in his chubby fist. Taken in by the Sisters of the Golden Erinyes, Bexilarius was baptized in unholy water, inculcated in the tenets of diabolism, and trained in the arts of Hamatulatsu, the exotic martial art inspired by the barbed devils. Though Bexilarius loved learning Hamatulatsu and was a natural student, he was always a willful boy and frequently chafed at the strict discipline of the monastery, for which he was rewarded with frequent whippings and scourgings at the hands of the Devil Nuns. This only served to reinforce his own inner strength however, and in time, he even grew to take some small amount of pleasure from the beatings.

The same cannot be said of the other children at the monastery. Jealous of his prowess in Hamatulatsu, the other orphans relentlessly teased and bullied Bexilarius, both for his small size and the budding horns and unpleasant smell of his infernal heritage. This lasted until Bexilarius was 10 years old, when he finally faced his worst tormentor, a human boy three years older and almost twice as big. Bexilarius spent the afternoon breaking all of the bones in the boy’s arms, one by one, before finally breaking his neck with a satisfying snap. From that day forward, no one at the orphanage tormented Bexilarius again.

As a teen, Bexilarius ran with several tiefling gangs on the streets of Senara, and dabbled in thuggery and occasional wetwork, pimping, drugs, and other vices. But he found his true addiction at the gaming tables. The roll of the dice, the shuffle of cards, and the click of chips became a siren’s call, and Bexilarius frequently found himself deep in debt. Recently, to pay off his debts, Bexilarius accepted a commission to kill a young noble, a job that he undertook with pleasure. Unfortunately for the young tiefling, his mark was a young scion of House Charthagnion, one of Cheliax’s most powerful families. The family soon tracked Bexilarius down, sending a bearded devil to enact their revenge. Infernally wounded and afflicted with the devil chills, Bexilarius barely escaped with his life, fleeing to the port city of Kintargo where he used the last of his money to book passage on a ship bound for Riddleport, in far-off Varisia. Bexilarius still bears an angry red scar from his battle with the barbazu, a wound that has never fully healed, and his health has never fully recovered from the infernal disease either, leading to occasional coughing fits and uncontrollable tremors.

Arriving penniless in Riddleport, Bexilarius found a city ripe with opportunity. He’s occasionally found work as an enforcer or cheap hushman for various minor crime bosses in the city, but the siren song of the tables always calls him back, and he has borrowed money from Lymas Smeed more than once to pay for his gambling habit, but so far has always managed to pay back the moneylender. Bexilarius rents a small room in the Rotgut District, but is rarely found there, instead spending his time in Riddleport’s various gambling halls, the House of Silken Veils (when he’s flush), or at lesser brothels (when he’s not). Having once more paid off his debts, Bexilarius has recently heard of the “Cheat the Devil and Take His Gold” tournament at the Gold Goblin Gaming Hall, and has decided to enter the tournament. With luck, he’ll win big. If not, he’s sure the new owner, Saul Vancaskerkin, can use a good bouncer and/or croupier.

It’s well after midday when the muddy sun and the stench of the Rotgut District make their way through the room’s single grimy window to finally wake Bexilarius up. His eyes open slowly as he takes stock of himself: the hard board beneath his back, the foul taste of cheap rotgut in his mouth, the sticky feel of dried sweat on his skin, the cloying hint of cheap perfume, noticeable even over his own brimstone scent.

Dark Belial, I can still smell the wench on me! She was a good flop, though, if you didn’t look too closely at her face, and gave her rathole something to do to shut her up.

He sits up, stretching his tired muscles. It was a long day yesterday. It started with a little hush-work for Boss Croat, strictly contract work, a low-key job that he farms out to independents instead of his own half-orc enforcers. Bexilarius didn’t even know what the pigmeat had done, just a quick kiss in the early morning hours, followed by a snap of the neck. Poor sod didn’t even have time to get out of bed, and his wife never made a peep during the whole thing, just staring up with wide, staring eyes from behind their ratty blanket. Not my problem. Sometimes you’re the rat, and sometimes you’re the cat.

But the job was good, and it gave Bexilarius enough scratch to pay off his latest loan from that sweaty squeaker of a loan shark, Lymas Smeed. In the clear again, and though Bexilarius hated the thrice-damned grog-blossom, it wouldn’t be good to get on his bad side, or whoever it was that really pulled his strings. Problem was, there wasn’t much of a stake left over, and he lost most of that over the course of the afternoon at the House of Nabin’s tables, even though he was up at the beginning. He had planned an evening at the House of the Silken Veil, perhaps with a nice bottle of Kharijite ’98, but his waning fortunes precluded that. It was a shame, really. There was a new abbess there, a sideshow girl called Lavender Lil that he’d been keeping his eye on. Glimmering purple eyes, and the cutest tail you ever saw on a devil-girl.

Instead, he drifted back to Rotgut, and spent the evening guzzling Gordo’s watery piss-grog at the Juggler’s Drop. Not really his preferred choice of evening’s entertainment, but when you’re down to just a few silvers, you take what you can get. He was going to head over to Madame Trixie’s after, where he knew the girls were clean, and where that half-elf doxy Tamarie always batted her eyelashes at him, cooing sweet nothings about the darkness in his soul. (In truth, Bexilarius spent far more time at Madame Trixie’s than the House of the Silken Veil, whatever he tried to tell himself.) But he never made it. That sly quickwife sidled up to his table just as he was about to leave, and before he knew it, he was upstairs, flat on his back, and she was rifling through his pockets. That’s what you get when you eat laced mutton. Too bad for her he didn’t make a good pigeon, even if she had slipped some Indigo Dreams into his drink. In the end he got his money’s worth and kept all the coins in his pouch, before finally stumbling home.

After a night like that, though, he needs to refocus, center himself, especially with the tournament at the Gold Goblin tonight. Bexilarius stands up and walks across the room to the shard of glass that serves as a mirror. A hint of purple in his crimson eyes shows the girl had tried to give him Indigo Dreams, but she didn’t have the dose right, fortunately. It would be purged from his system soon enough.

Bexilarius picks up the well-used scourge from the rickety table, running its braided strands through his fingers, still sticky from yesterday’s meditation. Naked, he slowly walks to the center of the dingy room and sits down in the Three-Pointed Osyluth position. Eyes closed. Deep breaths, empty the mind. Focus. Relax each muscle one by one, feel the strength, the power, in each one. Discipline is strength. Discipline is pain. Pain is salvation. His hand rises, and brings the scourge down on his bare back, the knotted strands cutting into his back. Again. And again. Fire spreads across his back as old wounds reopen and new welts are cut into old scars. Purge the dirt, the grime, the alcohol, the vice. Become pure, focused free.

With one smooth motion, Bexilarius rises and goes through his forms. He revels in the familiar repetition, the feel of muscles stretching, coming alive. Trained to perfection, his limbs move naturally through the offensive and defensive positions, effortlessly switching from one to the next. Sweat runs into the welts on his back, burning his flayed skin, spurring him on, focusing his mind and strengthening his body.

When his meditations and exercises are over, Bexilarius washes, the water cool on his scarred back. He teases his hair into hamatula spikes and reweaves his braid before putting on fresh clothes. Just enough time for a quick drink before going to the Gold Goblin. Maybe a nice glass of Alkenstar ice wine. The soakers over at the Publican House always have a good selection. I should have just enough coin. One drink, but no food today, he tells himself. You’ve indulged yourself enough lately. You must be focused for the tournament.

Bexilarius heads out and is quickly accosted by the grubby halfling that lives downstairs, hands out for coins or scraps. “Out of my way, slip,” Bexilarius growls, punctuating his words with a kick to the little man’s chest. The halfling backs away, gasping for breath, but with a pitifully ingratiating smile still plastered on his face, like a stupidly loyal dog too dumb to avoid its abusive master. A smile on his face, Bexilarius thinks about the evening ahead. His entry fee is paid, and if anyone knows a thing or two about cheating devils, it should be him. But win or lose, it’s how you play the game. And if I play my cards right, I might just be able to get out of these church work odd jobs and make a name for myself in this city. Look out, Riddleport! The devil’s come to take his due, and his name’s Bexilarius!